When I am old I will walk slowly and only on the flat. I
will gaze longingly at high hills and pretty girls and think of what once was
and what might have been.
I shall wear shapeless grey clothes and smell faintly of
urine and strongly of aftershave, even though I shall not need to shave my chin
more than once every third day.
Others will tend to my needs through duty to blood or money.
I will be unable to cut my own toenails and I shall weep tears of impotent rage.
I shall be indulged in my dotage as I was in my youth yet
discarded as of no more use. I’ll demand, but probably not get, respect from
people who will wonder exactly what I’ve done in my life to think I deserve it.
I will rail against teenagers and how they are wasting their
most vital days while forgetting that I was once a teenager myself, and I shall
rant at the state of the world while ignoring the fact that I have done little
to improve it. But that, alongside all my other foibles, will be tolerated,
because I will be old.
I will drool into my food and onto my shirt and I shall
become impatient at the failings of others to mask my annoyance at my own shortcomings.
And I will reflect sadly on the fact that one day, not so
very long ago, it was indeed all fields around here.
When I am old I shall become louder as people around me hear
less. But I shall eventually grow quieter.
And quieter.
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